Chaos detonated inside the half‑submerged bus.
"We're in the river!"
"Help! I don't want to die!"
"Driver! Open the door—let us out!"
The driver hung limp over the wheel, knocked out cold by the crash. Students shoved at the front and rear doors—nothing. The panels held like welded iron.
Water pressed hard from outside; air remained trapped within. With that pressure differential, brute tugging was useless. Some seniors knew the physics: flood the cabin, equalize pressure, then the doors might budge. But every side window was tempered glass, and the emergency hammer was long gone—thrown somewhere in the impact.
"It's over… we're going to drown in here," a girl beside Isla choked.
Panic rippled. Non‑swimmers went white.
The aunt who'd grabbed the steering wheel shrieked, "You young people—do something!"
Dozens of murderous looks snapped her way. If glares could kill…
Fenric's eyes went cold. He could punch out a window and leave them all. Whether he bothered saving anyone… that depended entirely on his mood.
The bus groaned and settled deeper. Bubbles frothed against the glass.
He sighed. So much for staying low‑key.
"You—back up!" he barked, squeezing forward to the front door.
"Ric, what are you doing?" Jitto coughed.
"Opening it," Fenric said. "Listen up! When the water rushes in, grab a rail. If you can't swim—close your eyes, hold your breath. I'll pull as many as I can."
"That's suicide," Jitto protested. "The pressure—"
"No!" the aunt screeched, lunging to stop him. "I can't swim! Wait for rescue!"
"Get lost."
Fenric's kick lifted her and dumped her down the aisle. Anyone else would've blacked out; the aunt, powered by years of public‑square dancing and pure spite, only howled. At least she stopped grabbing the wheel.
No one objected. Every passenger there understood: wait, and they drown.
Fenric drew back and drove his fist into the door.
BOOM!
The blast was like thunder in a tin drum. The sealed door blew outward; river water punched in.
He slipped sideways as the surge slammed through the aisle. "Hold on!"
Water filled the cabin in seconds. Non‑swimmers thrashed blind. Hands clawed. Legs kicked.
Fenric opened his eyes against the blur. Great. Jitto—can't swim. Isla—also flailing. Her friends? Same. Figures.
He hooked Jitto by the collar with one hand, wrapped an arm around Isla's waist with the other—priority triage, and yes, that was preferential treatment. Practical, too: a panicked fatty could drag a rescuer under.
Real‑world note (serious): Drowning victims grab and pull; rescuing without training is dangerous. Stay safe.
Three more girls spun past; Fenric extended his mind power, seizing them like invisible hands and locking them in his wake.
He kicked hard, thought‑force surging behind him like a propeller, and shot out through the blown front door into open water.
Surface. Air. Shore.
One trip, one haul: Fenric dumped Jitto coughing in the shallows, lowered Isla, and dragged the three girls up the embankment.
Behind them, an elderly man who actually could swim manhandled the unconscious driver out a shattered window. Respect.
As for the steering‑wheel aunt…
Well. May she keep that attitude when reporting to the King of Hell.